But somehow the collective will pulls most people up by the bootstraps of independence and throws them back into the rushing current of life. I cry most days. On a rainy day I will think of the dearly departed, and the outside sky will touch a torrent inside me until I merge into that watery weather. On a sunny day I will have a fleeting impact of thankfulness for the grandeur of the moment – and then I am blindsided by the dry ache of loss.
Percolating is not easily received by society as a whole. I cannot number the conversational voids I have created by dropping my father’s name. As I resolutely continue the thought, remembrance, complaint, etc. in spite of the reverberating silence, my frustration mounts. Why shouldn’t I talk about the “police sticks” he bought from the German deli, or the Chinese laundress that forgot to close his inseam, or the time he blew the gate off a toll booth because he didn’t realize he’d dropped his EZ Pass?
At his memorial service I didn’t speak. In the back of my mind was “...where feelings are many, words are few”. It seemed applicable. However, the rule of the day was not clearly enough enunciated for me to realize that my socially appropriate opportunity was fleeting; like his remains that were shipped to sea, my time to mourn aloud had departed.
I think I will continue in my rebellion. My father was the best of times and the worst of times in my life, but he was the biggest person I have ever known. I cannot help but bump into the echoes of him everywhere, and when I do I will exclaim in surprise/pain/joy as the moment dictates. In other words, I will adamantly percolate. Perhaps the sound and aroma will embolden someone else to do their brewing right out in the open as well…
